


Hold Me In Your Arms, Tell Me You Mean It

by lovely_rita



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Fluff, M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24220474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_rita/pseuds/lovely_rita
Summary: John knows they’re near the end now, and he doesn’t want to drag it on knowing they’ll only reject each other in the end.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	Hold Me In Your Arms, Tell Me You Mean It

**Author's Note:**

> Request: Could you please write something about touch starved Paul, who is too proud to acknowledge he's touch starved (coz it's not manly blah blah blah), but fortunately John's there to fix it (aka touch is good)

John’s not seen Paul properly in days. He’s been in the studio, as usual, but he’s quiet, low-spirited with no real effort put into the music. He’s playing, but he’s not pushing them further. He’s not doing retake after retake and drilling them until they all want to leave. _No_. The past few days he’s sat in the studio bent over his bass, untamed hair brushing at his shoulders in an unfamiliar way that makes John grimace. 

In all honesty, he guesses it could be partially his fault. Every time Paul had an idea he would spit at it, hit it with words until it’s nothing more than a crushed opinion. And he supposes he should stop relying on Paul to come around to his house all the time and maybe make the effort to go to Paul’s. Because it seems that Paul’s given up trying to give himself to John when he knows there’s the possibility John won’t do the same back. Because John’s not making the same effort. John knows, and yet he can’t find it in himself to do anything about it, because he knows they’re near the end now, and he doesn’t want to drag it on knowing they’ll only reject each other in the end.

It’s two o’clock in the morning when he gets a knock on the door. He wasn’t sleeping, still trying to knock out some lyrics for another song. It’s raining outside, the water pelting at the windows and John’s sure it’ll turn into a thunderstorm soon. He can’t see who’s at the door from out the window when it’s so dark, so he opens the door with a huff, becoming face to face with a drenched McCartney. Paul looks tired, despondent even with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, his head bowed slightly to shelter himself from the rain. John frowns and opens the door wider.

“Paul?”

There’s a low rumble in the back, the rain smacking the floor in a rhythmic pattern. Paul sighs, eyes drooping as he shoves his hands further into his pockets.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll go.”

John can’t understand what’s going on, but he won’t let Paul go back out into the storm. He grabs his arm a bit rougher than he would’ve liked, and Paul’s head snaps to him, eyes bewildered.

“Jus’ come in for a bit. It’s late and it looks like the storms going to get worse.”

His voice is rough, cracked around the edges with lost sleep and disquiet. Paul seems hesitant but he complies, easing out of John’s grip to step inside, shutting the door behind him with a quiet thud, the rain becoming muffled. John lets his eyes scour over Paul, watching the rain cling to his eyelashes and drip off his nose, the way his body shivers slightly at the cold. John thins his lips and nods his head towards the living room.

“Come ‘ead then. I’ll get ya a towel and some clothes.”

Paul doesn’t say anything, but there’s gratefulness in his eyes, and John leaves him standing in the living room whilst he finds out the clothes.

He doesn’t know why he does it, pulling Paul in when he should be pushing him away. It’s a second instinct, all those young Beatles days smacked on his conscious like second nature, because he can never turn Paul away. Not really. Not when Paul’s took him in so many times, held him on those depressing nights with a loving persona to wipe away the melancholy. Not when Paul’s held him back from all those fights he knows he won’t be able to win when the unsuppressed need to let out his temper has taken over. Not when Paul, who’s not spoken to him personally in what feels like months, isn’t afraid to knock on his door at two in the morning and still act like he’s okay, like he’s not soaked to the bone and shivering at just a look because he hasn’t been talked to or even touched in weeks.

John pulls out a few clothes and shuts the draws a little too abruptly, the slam of the draw vibrating, fizzling in his fingertips as he brings two fingers to the bridge of his nose, squeezing gently.

When he walks back into the living room Paul’s still standing in the same position, hands wringing as his eyes flit over the walls, his hair dripping making the carpet turn a darker colour. John sniffs, walking over to Paul quietly before placing the clothes in his hands. Paul’s eyes slide to him, almost dazed, and his lips quirk upwards slightly that at any other time would let John know he’s okay. But John knows he’s not. He ignores the smile and instead pats the clothes in Paul’s stiff hands.

“Ya can get changed in my room if ya want and I’ll make you a drink.”

Paul’s eyes flash with uncertainty but he nods, heavy legs leading him out of the room. The atmosphere’s too tense, too suffocating, and John has to let himself breathe for a second before he moves into the kitchen, feet sliding against the carpet.

By the time he’s made the tea Paul emerges, clad in John’s t-shirt and joggers. They fit him well, slightly short around the ankles, but it makes John smile.

“Here ya go,” he says, handing Paul a cup, and Paul smiles, though it wilts slightly after a moment of silence, and he shifts.

“I shouldn’t have come.”

His voice is abnormally low, and John frowns, concern itching at his wrists.

“Come ‘ead, Macca. We’ll go and sit down, yeah?”

It’s an attempt to even the air, and Paul falls for it, following John to the sofa where he sits as far away as possible, placing his tea on the side to partially curl into himself on the other end of the sofa.

John can’t stand it, that things have changed so much that Paul can’t even sit next to him, can’t even look at him the same way. He can’t bear the pain it causes knowing they’ll never be the same. Paul will never look at him with the same youthful lustre he used to wear only a few years ago.

John moves anyway, body almost moving on auto-pilot as he moves closer so that their knees are touching. Paul startles, attention snapping to John immediately.

“John,” Paul says, a warning painting his lips. John ignores it. He knows they both need this, they both need simplicity, to seek the familiarity of what they once were.

He touches his arm first, feeling the muscles tremble under his fingers. Paul’s eyes don’t leave his, and he doesn’t pull away. He ventures further, moving his hands around Paul’s waist to pull him against his chest, and Paul clings to him, hands digging into his back.

“It’s okay to touch, Paul,” he says, whispered against the shell of his ear, and Paul holds on tighter, pressing his face into the jut of John’s collarbone.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, rubbing his nose into Paul’s damp hair. Paul’s chest shudders with a deep breath, and a murmur leaves his lips.

“I’m sorry, John.”

There are so many meanings to those words that it makes John halt, face buried in Paul’s dark hair.

“Don’t be. I needed it too,” he replies, perturbed at the unease in Paul’s voice. He feels Paul sigh against him, breath hot against his neck, just above the collar of his shirt.

Paul pulls away first, pupils blown and eyes uncertain. John looks at him for a second, watching a Paul wipes the pads of his fingers across his cheeks.

“Ya can stay here tonight. If you want,” John says. It’s an invitation he knows holds more meaning, and it’s one he can’t take back. He’s surprised when Paul responds with a wet laugh instead of brushing him away.

“Sure, Johnny,” he says, and the nickname jolts John, crackling his nerve endings like lightening. He smiles, genuinely now, and they down the tea before stumbling into John’s room.

They hit the sheets together, John’s lips pushed against Paul’s as they press together, breathless and touch-starved. Hip bones scrape and fingers graze skin as they pull their t-shirts off, finally chest to chest. John kisses him again now, softly and assuring before Paul sighs, moving to rest his cheek against John’s chest. Their legs are tangled, John has a thigh between Paul’s legs and he wraps a hand around Paul’s wrist. He can feel his pulse, steady and unconcerning, and he rubs his thumb backwards and forwards, an apology pressed thinly into the skin. Because he doesn’t know when this will happen again. He doesn’t know if they’ll even wake up the same or turn back into distant friends. Paul hums quietly, raking his nails thinly over John’s chest. John brushes the fringe from his eyes, noticing the brush of stubble on Paul’s jaw. He kisses his forehead tenderly, and Paul draws himself impossibly closer.

They don’t talk, not wanting to have the discussions of ' _what if’s_ ' and ' _maybe’s_ ' when they know how it will end. Instead, John lets Paul stay in his arms, lets himself curl around his lost lover with content, sleep coming naturally to both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Comments and kudos are very appreciated :)  
> The title is from 'Love Me Like There's No Tomorrow' by the wonderful Freddie Mercury <3  
> You can find me on Tumblr at @lovely-rita-meter-maidd so don't be afraid to come and say hi!!


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